The Good Son
by Seifergrrl
Summary: Seymour Guado; outcast, freak, summoner, maester, murderer? Progress from each step of his life to the next, in this story of what made the half-guado descend into madness...


**The Good Son**

**A Tale of ****Seymour**** Guado**

By Amanda Lever

_Prologue: Root Cradle_

My name is Seymour Guado. At least, my name is Seymour. 'Guado' is merely my father's race; they have no surnames for they believe they are all merely branches of the single, mighty tree that has become Guadosalam. But my father refused to have me carry my mother's maiden name as my own, and thus among the people of Bevelle, I was Seymour Guado, just as he was Jyscal Guado to them. 

My earliest memory is that of the heartbeat of Guadosalam. Despite my human grandfather's protests, I was born in my father's homeland. Guadosalam's heartbeat matched my mother's for most of my early years; it kept me comforted when I was alone, it thrummed with me when I ran. I was, despite my human heritage, uniquely attuned to its constant, invariable presence. 

I am the only one of my kind. My father was the leader of the Guado until his 'untimely death', and my mother, now long dead, was human. They had a forbidden love; the Guado and the Humans both regard themselves as superior than the other, and thus do not take members of the other race as mates.

But my progressively minded father, the first Guado Maester of Yevon who converted the Guado to the love of Yevon, he found himself enraptured with not only human ways, but also human women. Thankfully, the tales of his womanizing are downplayed and his eternal love for my mother gained the spotlight for the 'Joy of Spira'. 

I cannot speak of their courtship; I have been told it was completely honorable and affectionate, but that her father opposed the union. However, my father won her away from his estate, crept off with her in the dead of night, and wed her in the mansion that I spent half my life in. 

However, he had responsibility. He had to provide an heir for his position and his 'branch' of the Guadosalam tree. Progeny, you will find, are very important to the Guado, the continuation of their small race desperately important. 

And thus I am told the quest for the child that would be me began. Magical aid, blessings of Yevon, herbs, and even Al Bhed sciences were brought to bear with all their mighty weight; my mother apparently had 'woman troubles', and her soils could not accept a seed so alien as my father's. Many Guado took this as a sign that there should not have been a marriage, and began to speak it plainly as the years went on.

Six years passed. They struggled. They wept. They cursed each other.

And then I happened.

They're not quite sure what did it; it could have been magic, it could have been science, it could have simply been luck. But it simply happened. The silver-haired physician that served my mother simply told her that she was now blessed with child; a very hard won heir indeed. 

Nay Sayers suddenly offered their support. A child was a great blessing for the slow-breeding Guado, and despite my tainted bloodline, I was still welcome. 

Within the hollows of the great tree's roots, I was birthed. It was not a simple, easy thing; my body was not built the way a human child's is. I was simply formed 'wrong'. My right arm was slightly longer then my left, and it showered the twisted bone structure and gnarled flesh of the Guado. The patterns swept over my side, across my back, and curled around to trail up the underside of my ribs. My right leg was also slightly bowed in Guado fashion, and thus I made for a painful birth for my mother.

I was, in short, an unsightly child. My mother's pale hair had mingled with my father's deep green-blue to create a fair skinned child with hair like the summer sky and eyes like amethysts.

My birth was met with grand celebration, and legendry is cast upon it. All the crystal outside of the great tree shone at once, the heartbeat of Guadosalam quickened for a few moments as my first cry split the air. I have no idea if any of this is true, or if it is just the memories of drunken revelers. I honestly care less. Living, you see, would be a state I would come to detest. Death, in its quiet purity, would suit me far better.


End file.
